


Behind Closed Doors

by TwelveLeagues



Category: Les Misérables (TV 2018)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Guilt, M/M, Paranoia, Shame, Valjean has a lot of anxieties in this fic, and they manifest sexually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 19:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17772443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues
Summary: Rumours have always flown about what goes on inside Père Madeleine’s home. So of course Javert investigates.





	Behind Closed Doors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



Javert paces the room like a caged tiger, his eyes lingering first on one object then another. A sturdy wooden table; a bare wall; an unvarnished cabinet. Valjean has lived comfortably in the town that has treated him so well, but he has lived simply.

“Not what the rumours would have you believe, I suppose?” Valjean smiles at the back of Javert’s head. He has grown so used to smiling that it’s become something of a natural response to stress.

Javert turns, settling his steady gaze on Valjean. 

“Well, that would depend on the rumour, Monsieur le Maire.” He turns again, his eyes resting briefly on the candlesticks on the mantelpiece, and Valjean’s stomach knots. The corners of his mouth ache. 

There is a small book on a side table that he set aside in the morning, a ribbon marking the description of a bracing sea breeze that jolted him violently out of the story. It is inches from Javert’s hand. Valjean does his best not to look at it.

Javert turns back to face Valjean. Now that he has come to a stop, he is perfectly still, as though he’s reached the place he has wished to be for a long time and will not give it up easily. 

“I overheard one of your workers gossiping about what goes on in here. There was a mention of golden bedposts. Angels with outstretched wings, I believe.”

“You’re asking to see my bedchamber, Inspector?” He keeps his tone polite, his smile almost as pleasant as he can make it. And for a moment, Javert’s expression shifts into something half outraged and half triumphant. And then it’s gone, replaced by the intent look Javert has worn since arriving in the town.

“Not today, Monsieur. Perhaps another time.”

“May I offer you a drink, in that case?” The words come easily. A gracious mayor should stoop to indulge the town’s law enforcers, he reminds himself. A proper and upstanding man would be at ease in this situation. Perhaps he would joke with Javert, as he once saw Javert joke with other guards in the bagne.

Perhaps, a thought sparks in the back of his mind, a powerful man might make a joke of Javert. Just as Javert once made a joke of him. The thought spits and burns and then dies away and he continues to smile. What must his soul look like, blackened as it is with the scars of so many unworthy thoughts?

Unexpectedly, Javert’s lip quirks and Valjean’s pulse quickens. Has he given himself away? There’s no answer to be found in Javert’s expression. The man is as implacable as ever.

“Not right now. I have some reports to write up.” Javert takes a final glance around the room before meeting Valjean’s eyes again. “Thank you for the offer, though. Perhaps I’ll take you up on it one of these days.”

Valjean nods tightly. He follows Javert to his own doorway, opens it and steps aside. Javert crosses the threshold and then turns back to face Valjean.

“You’re a most gracious host, Monsieur le Maire.”

Valjean opens his mouth, but no words form. Instead he smiles. His hand tightens on the doorframe.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, I was a little surprised you made time for me. I’ve been told that you prefer your own company. Is that right, Sir?”

Valjean leans his weight against the door frame. he blindly gropes for the door’s handle. The cool brass is a relief against his too-warm palm.

“Is that so unusual?”

Javert’s voice drops until it is low and conspiratorial. 

“Well, that depends on the man, doesn’t it? I knew of men in the hulks at Toulon who spent a lifetime packed side-by-side with the worst kind of vermin. They ate and bathed and slept and shat together. Never a moment to themselves. No better than they deserved, you may think, and you wouldn’t be wrong. But you could understand why such men would be glad to be alone more often than not, couldn’t you?” 

The door is a solid, rich oak, but Valjean might just as easily be pressed up against a rotting bulkhead. Javert bares his teeth.

“But I see that I’m boring you. A man of your standing, of course, has doubtless had the luxury of large rooms and privacy for your whole life. Is that not so?”

“No,” Valjean says, his heart racing. “I’ve been fortunate in this town. You can see from my possessions that I’m not a man used to the finer things in life.”

Javert makes a thoughtful sound. His eyes dart away to seek out something behind Valjean’s shoulder. Then he pulls his attention back to Valjean’s eyes. Nods once. “I can indeed. Very well, Monsieur le Maire. Until next time.”

And finally he turns, walking with heavy steps in the direction of the town square.

*

The image will not leave Valjean’s mind.

Javert standing before his mantlepiece, calm and unmoving. Unapologetically intruding the small amount of space Valjean has carved out for himself. Those dark eyes boring into Valjean as though they might see all the way through him.

He continues as he imagines an innocent man might. But the memory will not leave him. As he goes about his day, as he passes coins to children in the street, as he signs paper after paper alone in his office until his wrist aches and his eyes blur, it persists.

He takes the long route home, avoiding the rougher outskirts of town but finding a quiet path through narrow back streets. He stops more often than usual, listening more intently to stories and complaints and pleas for help. His pockets grow lighter and that is a relief, at least.

The moon rises, casting a pale light over the cobblestones. Shutters clatter together and the air fills with sounds he has always taken pains to avoid: The rustle of petticoats and the clinking of glasses. There is nothing for it. Valjean will have to face his home sooner or later, after all.

Closing the door behind him does not release the tension he has carried with him since Javert’s visit. Locking it — double locking it — isn’t enough either. Valjean’s heart is still . It is too late, he reminds himself. The damage has been done, there’s no use for anxiety now. But still, he casts his eye over each piece of furniture: The simple table, the bare cupboard. What secrets could they have revealed to Javert’s practiced eye?

And, of course, there are the candlesticks. If Javert knew to look for them, he is as good as finished.

Valjean’s breath leaves him in a rush. It’s too late to worry about any of this. The room has already emptied itself out for Javert. But Valjean is restless. He paces. Glances up at the mantelpiece where the virgin and the bishop’s candlesticks remain. The book is where he left it in the morning, still untouched. He picks it up now and turns it over in his hands, wondering that so small a thing could have done him any harm.

He still feels the weight of Javert’s eyes on him, watching from the centre of the room as they did a few hours earlier. It is foolishness, but it is undeniable.

Javert has been stationed in the town for some time, now. Madeleine was already used to being watched, followed, discussed, dissected by admirers and gossips alike. But this is different. There is no curiosity in Javert’s questioning gaze. He watches with the certainty of a predator: The question is not whether he will strike but when.

The book slips from Valjean’s hand, pages splaying apart like a patient carved open on an operating table. The ribbon slips out of its place. It seems that Valjean’s hand is shaking. He cannot remain in this room.

*

The light from a single candle flickers against a bare wall and for an irrational moment, Valjean wishes he had not lingered so long at the dining table.

The house is empty. It has been empty all evening, its heavy stillness only broken by the sound of his own footsteps and the soft clattering of dishes. All of the doors are locked. The downstairs windows are shuttered. He has checked them more than once.

The light from the candle does not fill the bedroom. The soft glow stretches almost to the corners, but not quite. He lifts the candle higher, walks the perimeter of the room. The corners are as familiar as they are in daylight, with nothing more to fear than a cobweb. Valjean sets down the candle on the simple wooden nightstand and lifts his hands to remove his waistcoat.

_Angels with outstretched wings_ , Javert had said, a hint of amusement in his voice. Madeleine’s bedchamber would disappoint most visitors, Valjean thinks ruefully, but perhaps not Javert. He slips off his waistcoat, folds it neatly and sets it aside. People are naturally suspicious of rich men, he reminds himself, especially those who make a public virtue of their good deeds. Valjean can hardly blame them.

Outside, a sharp breeze rattles the branch of a tree against his window. Valjean’s hand freezes halfway to his cravat and then, with a certainty he does not entirely feel, he tugs it free, reminding himself that he is alone in the room. The rasp of breath is his own. The rustle of cloth is his own. When he pulls his shirt over his head and bares his scarred back to the walls, it is not bared at all because there is no one there to witness it.

Still, he wastes as little time changing as possible.

The light from the candle plays tricks. An unexpected flicker can send a shadow jolting in some unnatural direction. But Javert would not dart around the room or lurch sideways or stretch impossibly tall. He would stand perfectly still, Valjean thinks, his breath quickening at the thought. He would wait in silence, standing perfectly still, and he would watch.

Valjean’s nightshirt catches around his throat, he pulls it down so roughly. It is an ordinary clean cotton, but it scratches like the cheap red smock that he worked and slept and sweated into for so many years. He kicks off his trousers, promising himself that he will wake early and fold them properly for the portress. 

He sleeps, fitfully.

*

He is somewhere between sleep and waking, half drowning between the ghost of Jean Valjean and the dream of Père Madeleine. The sheets have been tangled and pushed aside so only the nightshirt, still white but stained with dark patches of sweat, is the only thing keeping him covered. The room is silvery blue with moonlight. It is difficult to breathe.

Javert is in the room with him. He wonders, in that half-logical way of dreamers, why Javert kept hidden for so long. Valjean has felt Javert’s presence since the moment he returned from the factory.

Javert, still in his dark overcoat as he was in the afternoon. But in the afternoon, Javert’s eyes were everywhere, taking in each detail of Valjean’s private rooms. He paced, inching closer to half-open doors and running his hands over furniture.

Now he stands at the foot of the bed, unmoving. Valjean is on his back, his legs splayed apart. His throat is burning up with the fever of the night and the shame of being watched and—

There is no explanation for it, but there is no denying it either. He is painfully hard. 

Valjean’s heart is pounding. He wants nothing more than to curl onto his side or cover himself with his hands. But his body is sluggish and something — Javert’s eyes? The sheer pressure of this nightmare? — weighs his limbs down.

Perhaps this is his punishment. Or, at least, a taste of it. It will not be enough to lose what standing he has in society, to dismantle everything he’s built. Javert will not be satisfied until every defence is stripped away, until every shameful secret is revealed and his humiliation is complete.

A shiver creeps down his back and his cock pulses. It is as though Javert has reached out and taken him in hand, but Javert hasn’t moved from his station at the foot of the bed. Wouldn’t raise a hand to dirty it with the likes of Valjean. He groans at that thought, every nerve alight.

Javert is not a large man but he is imposing. Valjean has seen his hands curled around a cudgel, he’s seen them wield the lash and strike defenceless prisoners to the ground. But just a few short hours ago, Javert trailed a delicate finger across Valjean’s polished sideboard. He plucked a stray piece of fluff from the front of his jacket. Those hands could take Valjean apart, meticulously drawing out pleasure or meting out discipline. But they won’t.

No, Javert won’t lay a hand on him. This is exactly what Javert wants, after all: The impostor mayor exposed and spread out for Javert’s inspection, mortified and breathless and aching for a touch he doesn’t deserve. He is not a gracious mayor, he is not a good man and he does not deserve a generous touch. The thought sends a heady, inexplicable rush straight to Valjean’s prick. His hips shift fitfully, his body twisting against the cool white sheets. 

It’s a peculiar kind of torment. The nightshirt is plastered to Valjean’s back now, sweat beading his brow. There is no space in this room for carefully chosen words or a measured tone. Under Javert’s scrutiny, the gentleman he has built himself into falls away like ashes. His limbs are so heavy they might as well be chained down. His voice has deserted him entirely, leaving him with nothing but the helpless, guttural sounds that only damned men make.

This is what will become of him when Javert has collected his evidence. The end of comfort, the end of respect, the end of privacy and decency and safety. The choking heat is rising and Javert’s eyes are merciless. All it would take is a touch now. Less than a touch: A breath.

And to his horror, Valjean’s lips are already moving to form a mute plea. Not for absolution or even for a temporary reprieve. In this shattered moment, with his eyes fixed on Javert and his mind sick with the aching pressure building inside him, he only means one thing.

“ _Please_.”

Javert raises his eyes to meet Valjean’s and Valjean knows he is lost. But he moistens his lips, drags his eyes down Valjean’s body and then nods once. It is enough. Valjean gasps raggedly and soils himself, Javert’s lips curling upwards as his heartbeat slows to a normal pace and the stain spreads up through his nightshirt and seeps outwards.

*

When Valjean opens his eyes, the room is dark and empty. His nightshirt, soaked with sweat and worse, clings to his back, his shoulders, his chest. It moulds around the weakest, most treacherous parts of him and he curls on his side, hating the feeling but unwilling to strip it away. His eyes fix on the bare wall.

There is still time. He measures the stretched hours in shallow breaths. Javert knows too much, but he doesn’t know everything. Valjean can make arrangements. In a few hours, the morning will creep in, cool and clear, and Valjean will pack away the worst signs of his offences. Javert can keep his suspicions but he’ll never see the proof of them.

The dawn arrives as it always must. Père Madeleine’s bed is empty and the bedclothes have been stripped away. Cupboards and drawers have been pulled open, belongings strewn across the floor as if the room were ransacked in a panic. A waistcoat is neatly folded next to a heap of dirty clothes. Anyone who didn’t know better might look over the room and assume a thief had been in there.

And Père Madeleine, the mayor of Montreuil, is in a forest, on his knees. A wooden box beside him contains a small fortune and the handful of objects that may recall some long-forgotten crimes committed by some long-forgotten convict. 

The birds in the trees are passing their secrets back and forth. Less than a mile away, a horse stands patiently huffing hot breath into frozen air. The early morning dew has soaked through the ground and the mud is seeping up to stain Père Madeleine’s trousers. His boots are in an even worse state and his trembling hands are coated with dirt.


End file.
